Mon Ami
by willshakespeare-immortalbard
Summary: Traces Roland and Oliver's friendship starting from the battle laid out in Gerard de Vienne. Full summary inside: Roland POV. Please read/review, as I seriously love reviews. T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N—I love **_**The Song of Roland**_**. So, so, so, so much. So here I go—writing my own piece. This follows Roland and Oliver's friendship, from Roland's POV, starting at the battle between them during the fight with Gerard de Vienne, who was, according to the **_**chanson de geste**_** of the same name, was Oliver's grandfather. Sorry. I'm a huge fan of this, which is amazing, as I had to read it for school. I wish it could be the same with Shakespeare, but no luck. **

**I don't own **_**The Song of Roland**_**. Mr. Anonymous writer of the 1100s does. But luckily, he can't sue me. **

**MON AMI**

Durendal shuddered in Roland's hand as it connected with the opposing knight's blade. A loud clang echoed throughout the clearing. The connection sent stabs of pain jarring up his arms, and made his fingers go numb.

He swung Durendal around, trying to undermine his opponent, but the knight deflected the blow with the flat end of his blade, and stepped aside as he yanked his sword away.

Off in the distance, the crowd moaned and cheered simultaneously, the supporters of the two parties mingling their voices in a loud roar. Roland blocked out the noise as best he could—he didn't need any distraction. His mind was muddled enough by the memories that took advantage of his lowered barriers.

_"Are you laughing at me?"_

Another clang shook his sword as the knight struck again.

_Grey eyes, dancing with a mirth that would have been infectious, were it not so offensive..._

This time Roland attacked, and his opponent retreated a few steps as he advanced forward.

_"I could be."_

The ground beneath Roland's feet was so uneven. He lost his footing momentarily, and the knight took the advantage.

_Sticks clacking against each other, the sound nearly drowned out by the cheering of the frenzied crowd..._

Blow after blow after blow.

_"You've been beaten."_

The next blow sent Durendal spinning across the clearing, landing far beyond reach. The knight's sword snapped off at the hilt, and the severed blade flew the opposite direction as Durendal.

_The same grey eyes, regarding him with a respect that was new..._

Roland cursed, the bitter word resounding in his helmet, and rushed forward, his opponent doing the same.

_"I apologize most fervently. To have affronted such a fighter is a sore offense."_

Roland grabbed the knight's helmet at the same moment that the knight grabbed his.

_An outstretched hand, grubby and calloused, quickly accepted by one unmarred by work..._

Both of them yanked, and the helmets came off, where they were promptly dropped in astonishment.

Grey eyes: wide with incredulity...

Dark waves of hair: ruffled and unruly...

Olive skin: dirty and scraped by the inside of the metal helmet...

_"Oliver..."_


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own **_**The Song of Roland**_**. Mr. Anonymous writer of the 1100s does. But luckily, he can't sue me. **

"I yield!" Roland gasped, staggering forward, closing the distance between him and his boyhood friend and companion. He faintly heard Oliver cry _"I yield me!", _but ignored the yells of protest that could be heard ringing across the clearing.

The two friends fell into each other's arms, sobbing with joy.

"Olivere...you, here!" Roland managed to say. Oliver said something along the same lines that Roland didn't catch, as it was indiscernible past Oliver's tears.

"What is this?" Ganelon strode across the field, his dark eyes narrowed. "Roland, you can't just _yield_. The rules are to the death. The _death_. Not whenever you decide to yield."

But Bertha, who was hurrying up behind her husband, recognized the young man that Roland had so lovingly greeted.

"_Oliver_?" she gasped. "Is that you?"

Oliver nodded, his grey eyes sparkling with the tears that, upon Ganelon's arrival, he had struggled to contain.

Ganelon opened his mouth to protest, but his objection was cut off by Gerard's angry cries.

"What is the meaning of this, Olivere? Yielding?"

Soon the whole clearing was filled with voices as men and women of every rank chipped in, praising or condemning the young men's actions. Roland and Oliver tried to raise their voices above the crowd, but to no avail. Oliver was of a gentle disposition, not one to yell, and Roland had earned the crowd's censure, and was not listened to.

"ENOUGH!" Charlemagne's voice dominated the others, cowing them into submission. "Explain."

"Uncle," Roland said, stepping forward, "I-I did not know that Oliver was my opponent. Had I known as much, I would not have fought this battle. Uncle, Oliver is my friend."

"Friend?" Ganelon snapped.

"In Sutri," Bertha supplied. "I remember him. He and Roland had a little fight, but they became close friends."

"Uncle, more than friends. The day before you took me from Sutri, Oliver and I made a pledge. We pledged ourselves brothers-in-arms. Companions."


End file.
